Death on the Marais ilr-1

by Adrian Magson

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘She wasn’t rich. Her father was, but he never gave her anything. Her mother died several years ago, and that tore her apart. Her grandmother was still around, but all she really cared about was her son. Everything Nat had, she earned herself. She wanted to be independent… to be her own person, you know?’

  ‘I understand.’

  There was a choking sound. ‘She should not be dismissed as just a

  … a spoilt girl who got into trouble. That’s so unfair.’

  ‘I agree, it is.’ Rocco wondered where this was going. An attack of the guilts for running out after her friend’s death, perhaps? Then he recalled Viviane saying that Nathalie’s father paid her rent. ‘She had the flat, of course.’

  ‘That was just for show. He wanted to be seen as generous and caring… but it was to keep Nathalie under his thumb. Beholden to him. They didn’t get on.’

  ‘Why not?’

  There was a long pause.

  ‘Sophie?’ Rocco prompted her.

  ‘She knew things.’

  The line pinged with static.

  ‘What sort of things?’

  ‘Stuff about how her father made his money… how he managed to become rich and powerful at a time when so many others had lost everything.’

  ‘Did she give you any details?’

  ‘No. She said it was too dangerous to talk about. She mentioned it once when she got drunk, after she found out she was pregnant. She was so unhappy… I think it very nearly all came out. But something stopped her.’ Sophie cleared her throat as if she had found this difficult. ‘The only thing Nathalie ever said was that for a man who started out as a simple army captain, her father managed to end up owning lots of land. He acquired it just after the war, when he began buying things.’

  ‘Things?’

  ‘I think she meant companies damaged by the war. “Corporate rescue”, she said he called it, like it was heroic or something.’

  Or profiteering, as it’s called in some parts, thought Rocco cynically. ‘Go on.’

  ‘She said that, in spite of him being rich, some of the land he had acquired in his business deals was useless. He was always moaning about how he’d been cheated because there was nothing he could do to profit from it.’

  ‘Why useless?’ Any land, Rocco thought, was worth something. Especially if you didn’t have any to begin with. It gave most people a feeling that they belonged somewhere. No doubt to an industrialist like Berbier, however, different rules applied.

  ‘She said some of it was mountainous and good only for a few sheep. The rest was all lakes and marshland.’

  Marshland.

  Rocco felt a cold chill go through him. ‘Where was this marshland?’

  ‘Somewhere in the north, I’m not sure. I think she was talking about where she… where it happened. North and boring, she reckoned. All beetroot and cabbages and people scratching a living in the fields. I don’t think she meant that how it came out; she was actually a very nice person.’

  Rocco had never met Nathalie Berbier, but in his experience, breeding came through at times of great stress. And sometimes that breeding was revealed as an ugly truth. Still, that was all over now; a pattern was beginning to emerge. The only question was, would it lead anywhere? A distant father-daughter relationship, parental meanness, a soured and suspicious atmosphere based on resentment. Cue almost any family in the land. It didn’t amount to a crime.

  Then Sophie spoke again, her voice dull. ‘I told you Nathalie hated the man Broute.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘She hated her father more.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Early next morning, eyes gritty through lack of sleep, Rocco dragged himself to the Amiens office in search of Desmoulins. He tracked him down to a side office, talking on the phone and making notes. Desmoulins spotted him and waved him in, then ended his call.

  ‘Hi, boss,’ he said cheerfully. ‘I hear you’ve been busy.’ He nodded at the phone. ‘That was a call from Rouen, checking you out. A Detective Bertrand, talking you up after you met with him yesterday at a crime scene. His boss just got the report and wanted to hear more about the case. I hope you don’t mind; Commissaire Massin was busy, so I filled him in on what little I knew, without giving any names, though.’

  Rocco nodded and explained why he had gone to Rouen. ‘Thanks for taking care of it. You’d better fill Massin in on that phone call, for the sake of procedure.’

  ‘Will do. They’ve put out a bulletin on the student, Agnes Carre, who visited him recently. He said you’d know all about that.’

  ‘Yes. She was looking for a war photo. The same photo we found in Marthe’s house. Can you do your own records search on her, too? Could be a waste of time, but another pair of eyes might turn up something useful.’ He rubbed at his face and yawned. His whole body was beginning to shut down, overcome by tiredness.

  ‘No problem. You look like you could use some of our special coffee.’ The detective stood up and left the office, returning moments later with a large mug and some lumps of sugar. ‘Sorry about lack of finesse, but the maid’s off. This is strong enough to raise the dead.’

  ‘Now that would be a miracle.’ Rocco stirred in sugar and sank a large gulp of strong black that threatened to melt his teeth, then eyed Desmoulins carefully. The detective seemed unusually chipper and he wondered why. ‘Did you win the lotto or something?’ he asked.

  Desmoulins grinned. ‘Not quite. Massin told me about the photo coming from a shop in Poitiers. I used a bit of lateral thinking and reckoned that if this Didier Marthe came from that area, maybe Tomas Broute did, too.’

  ‘Christ, that was a leap. A good one, though. I should have thought of it myself.’

  ‘I used Massin’s name and got the mayor’s office in Poitiers to run a priority check on the civil register of births for a Tomas Broute in the area.’ He shrugged. ‘It was a long shot but you have to try these hunches occasionally, right?’

  Rocco waited, then said calmly, ‘Spit it out, for God’s sake, I’m desperate here.’

  Desmoulins looked pleased with himself. ‘In December 1912, a Lisanne Broute, spinster of the parish, gave birth to a son, named Tomas, Didier. No sign of a father, even a reluctant one.’

  Rocco played devil’s advocate. ‘Coincidence. Both names are fairly common.’

  Desmoulins didn’t even blink. ‘The registrar’s name was Marthe.’ He raised his hands. ‘What can I say?’

  Rocco closed his eyes. It fitted. Didier was about fifty, although he looked older, easily accounted for by a hard life and a lot of time working in the sun. It was a moment to savour, and he could well understand why Desmoulins was feeling so pleased with himself. ‘Bloody good work,’ he said. ‘Brilliant. Can you get copies of the paperwork?’

  ‘All on order. The mother’s dead — I got them to check the death records as well. No way of checking what happened to the kid, unfortunately, but I think we know that, don’t we?’

  ‘We do. He plays with bombs for a living.’ Rocco stood up, energised by the news. He was beginning to wonder why Didier had chosen to settle in Poissons-les-Marais. Doubtless it was for no better reason than chance and circumstance. The war had stirred up society’s mix in more ways than one. Whereas people had tended to stay in their home regions all their lives before that, the ending of the conflict had encouraged some to move around a lot more, seeking jobs, new faces and places, often to start afresh and roll away from bad memories. Especially the latter. And for those in search of a new identity, France was a big place in which to get lost. Especially for a man trying to hide the fact that he was supposed to be dead.

  That immediately led to thoughts about Berbier and his place in the story. But his ruminations were interrupted by the phone jangling. Desmoulins answered. He listened for a moment, then looked at Rocco and held out the receiver.

  ‘It’s for you. Lamotte from Poissons? He sounds stressed.’

  Rocco took the p
hone. ‘Yes, Claude.’

  ‘Sorry to chase you down, Lucas.’ Claude sounded breathless, as if he’d run up a flight of stairs. ‘I guessed you’d be there. Something’s not right back here. You know Francine at the co-op?’

  ‘I’ve met her. What about her?’

  ‘She’s gone missing.’

  ‘When was she last seen?’ Rocco met Claude outside the village cafe and told him to get in. He’d driven back as fast as the road would allow, elbowing aside those vehicles too slow to respond to his lights and horn, an echo of the urgency and worry in Claude’s voice riding with him. He’d left Desmoulins ready to call in extra help if needed, and to explain to Massin what he was doing. He’d also left a note describing the photo of Berbier and asking Massin if there was any way he could check the industrialist’s SOE credentials. He’d have preferred explaining the reasons himself, but Desmoulins now had the bit between his teeth and would carry a convincing argument for the request being met. It might come to nothing: even Massin might find his authority blocked at the level involving former intelligence service records. But the fact that questions were being asked would be felt like vibrations along a telegraph wire, and that might prove a useful catalyst.

  ‘Yesterday afternoon. She served two people before closing, but since then, nothing. She didn’t open this morning, and two delivery trucks dropped stuff in the backyard without getting a signature. Someone thought they saw her driving out towards Amiens, but it was only a fleeting glance. She might have been going for special supplies.’

  ‘Or making deliveries.’ Rocco drove the short distance to the co-op and skidded to a stop outside.

  ‘What?’ Claude looked at him.

  ‘She told me she was going to make a delivery to the lodge down on the marais. Another weekend party, apparently.’

  ‘Christ.’ Claude slapped the side of his knee. ‘I never thought of that.’

  Three women in traditional dark dresses, aprons and headscarves were standing near the front door, scowling furiously at the windows as if that alone would gain them admittance. Like ravens at a funeral, thought Rocco. He led Claude round to the rear of the shop, ignoring the women’s shrill demands about when it would be open, and pushed through the gate. He found himself in the yard and threaded his way between two rubbish skips, pallets of new stock and several empty bottle crates to the back door. A garage stood empty to one side. The door was open, with an axe and a pile of chopped wood just inside, and the usual garage-type rubbish on a bench at the rear.

  ‘What are we doing?’ Claude demanded. ‘Shouldn’t we go straight to the marais?’

  ‘Not yet. We’d look pretty stupid if she was here all the time, ill in bed.’ Or worse, Rocco avoided saying. He tried the door, but it was locked fast. The windows were reinforced with wire mesh and steel bars, no doubt a condition of the insurance agreement. He went back to the garage and picked up the axe and walked back to the door. He jabbed the head of the axe through the thick glass panel, then reached through and found the key. Seconds later, they were inside.

  It took moments to confirm that the building was empty. Rocco checked behind the counter, where he had seen Francine filling her delivery orders. There was no sign of the blue crate she’d been working on, he noted, nor any paperwork to go with it. And no sign of her car. It meant she had gone out on a delivery and was taking a long time to do it. Too long.

  ‘We’d better secure that back door,’ said Claude. He nodded at the women outside, who now had their faces pressed up against the window, watching silently. ‘Once word about this gets round, it won’t be long before someone pays the place a visit.’

  ‘How about… Arnaud, is it?’ Rocco remembered the handyman Mme Denis had mentioned. ‘Could he do it for the time being?’

  Claude nodded. ‘That’s his wife out front — I’ll get her to organise it. She’ll watch the place like a Rottweiler until it’s done and enjoy the drama.’ He went outside ahead of Rocco to make the arrangements, then joined him at the car.

  Rocco drove fast for the marais. Alongside him, Claude was muttering and staring out at the passing scenery as if he might manage to summon up the missing woman by willpower alone.

  Rocco felt for him. A small community like this bred closeness and a protective instinct among its members. And someone as harmless yet as fundamental to their needs as Francine would arouse strong feelings of concern. He tried to quell his own fears by telling himself that she had merely taken off for a break, that she had got tired of being on duty in the shop all the time without relief and had gone shopping. If so, all she would have to worry about was the fall-out of small-community public opinion going against her for letting them down. But that would soon fade: people still needed supplies, and he had the feeling Francine was quite capable of dealing with sniping from dissatisfied housewives upset because they couldn’t buy their cooking oil when they wanted to.

  What bothered him more, however, was the thought that she might have walked into something down on the marais that she couldn’t handle: something more than just a few dissatisfied crones in black dresses and aprons.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Philippe Bayer-Berbier put down the telephone in his study and went to stand at the window, his brow creased in worry. He had just received a call from his contact in the Interior Ministry, informing him that Inspector Rocco had been signed in at a crime scene in Rouen the previous day. A retired war photographer had been murdered and Rocco’s card had been found on his desk, left from an earlier visit. Word had only just filtered through from the Rouen criminal investigations office that Rocco had returned at the request of a local detective, and had provided some background information on the dead man. So far, there was no information about why Rocco was interested in anyone in the Rouen district.

  Berbier chewed his lip. The bloody man was what the English so eloquently called a bad penny, he reflected sourly: always turning up when and where he was least required. He tried to relax; the muscles in his shoulders were bunching with tension, something he had experienced more often just recently than he was accustomed to. Following his daughter’s untimely and messy death, which had been bad enough, and the investigation unrolled by Rocco, he had also learnt of the sudden disappearance to America of his daughter’s neighbour and friend. While that by itself might have been an entirely innocent coincidence, he had since ordered Nathalie’s flat to be cleared and cleansed as a precaution. He had no reason to think anything remained there which might be found by the police or — God forbid — the press, but it was a possible loose end. And loose ends were what had got him to this situation.

  He breathed deeply, feeling his heartbeat gradually settle. Even if the young neighbour knew anything, had picked up some idle chatter from his daughter, it was unlikely she would be a problem all the way across the Atlantic. But he would still have rested easier being reassured that Rocco would not be able to get to her.

  He wondered about the dead photographer. Ishmael Poudric, his contact had said. The name meant nothing to Berbier; names from that period were fading with the years, along with the faces. But the man’s former address during the war — Poitiers — had touched something deep inside him, awakening unwelcome echoes of the past and bringing back memories of dark nights, cold, wet weather and the ever present danger of discovery or betrayal. The more he thought about it the more he recalled seeing a man with a camera with one particular group of Resistance fighters. He himself had always instinctively avoided having his picture taken. But the others had been arrogant and stupid, encouraging the man to follow them. In the end it had made no difference: they had paid for their carelessness with their lives.

  All except one.

  Berbier winced at that, wondering how he could have been so utterly foolish, so naive as to have trusted his future to one man. Better he should have taken out his knife and dealt with the little ditch rat there and then. Instead, he’d tied himself to the treacherous cretin for life, an unholy alliance forged by his own gr
eed.

  He turned to his desk and looked at a sheet of paper containing a list of the police personnel in the Amiens prefecture. He’d had it sent over by his man in the Interior Ministry. It was a chance request prompted by an instinctive desire to know more about what and who he was dealing with.

  Right at the top was a familiar name.

  Francois Massin, district commissaire.

  He picked up the telephone on his desk and toyed with the wire, studying the name and wondering. He and Massin had met once at the military academy, when Berbier was a visiting lecturer on intelligence and guerrilla tactics. He barely remembered the man, only that he had been thin, ascetic and lacking any sense of brotherhood, to most members an essential part of the officer corps. To Berbier’s mind, not having it wasn’t necessarily a bad thing: too much military thinking was tied up in mindless tradition, anyway. But what he did recall about Massin was first, his observance of the rule book, and second, that he had since received a stain on his record from his time in Indochina. More than anything, for someone who doubtless wanted to reach the top of his profession before it was too late, that made Massin malleable. And taking advantage of a man’s weaknesses was something Berbier understood only too well.

  He read the prefecture telephone number off the sheet and was about to dial when there was a knock at the door. It was his driver.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘An update from the Ministry, sir. The duty operator in Amiens says a woman has disappeared in Poissons-les-Marais. A local shopkeeper.’

  ‘So?’ Berbier’s mind was still on Massin, deciding what approach to take. Senior policemen could be arrogant and unpredictable, especially those with something to prove. He had little regard for the man, but he would still have to be careful not to overplay his hand.